Always
by johnlocked-thetardis221
Summary: John is still adjusting to the fact that Sherlock is dead, even after 2 years. Now, He still hears his friend around the flat. Violin music playing in the den, the ruffling of paperwork. John will get Sherlock back, no matter what he has to do.-I don't own these characters or references and things but I do own the story that I've written so, please, don't take it.-
1. Chapter 1

John entered the flat, feet pressing against the creaking staircase. He could hear Sherlock's violin as he entered the room.

He was wearing his purple button-up shirt with black pants, standing in front of the window. His slender fingers danced from string to string as the other ran the ebony bow back and forth. Without turning his head, Sherlock acknowledged John's presence, "Did you get in a row with a machine this time?" He could hear Sherlock smirk.

"No. I didn't." John said, matter-of-factly. "Any cases?"

Sherlock put the instrument down, shaking his head, "Only the _boring_ _ones._"

John sighed, "Figured." He muttered, putting the milk in the fridge. He took off his coat and draped it over the chair, checking his buzzing phone. "Your brother is still calling me. Why does he keep calling me?"

Sherlock sighed and sat across from John, steepling his fingers under his chin, "Because, John, Mycroft likes knowing. He likes feeling...in control." He drank his cup of tea and sighed, "I need a case. How do you do this, John? Sit all day, write on your blog? It's extremely dull."

John sighed and opened his laptop, looking at Sherlock, "Here. I got these in an e-mail."

He handed the computer to Sherlock, who scrolled through the pictures of the crime scene, "The sister did it." He said, casually restoring his previous position. Sherlock groaned, "I need something _real_. Something...worth while."

The phone rang and John picked up, "Hello?"

"We need your help." Lestrade.

"We'll meet you at the office." John put the phone back on it's cradle as Sherlock was putting on his coat.

"Finally." Sherlock whispered as he hurried down the stairs.

That's how John's schedule was, daily, before the...accident. Now, he would still hear the violin playing, or Sherlock ruffling paperwork. It was weird. Hearing things that weren't there. His flat-mate's death was splattered across the front page of every magazine and newspaper. It was a constant reminder of something that John felt guilt for. He felt like it was his fault for Sherlock's suicide. Even if it wasn't about him.

Maybe it was.

John quickly dismissed the thought as He sat on the couch. It still smelled like Sherlock. Nowadays, everything in the flat did.

He couldn't sit still. His feet would tap or his fingers would rub against his palms. Eventually, John grabbed his coat and left the flat, heading towards the graveyard. Sherlock's black headstone was still there, reflecting the image of John's sad, hesitant figure. He stood in front of the grave and smiled, "Morning..." He said, leaning against the tall grave stone behind him, "I know you wouldn't care if I said this, even if you are dead, but Happy Birthday." The wind blew john's hair to the side and the trees rustled, adding to the gloom. Grey clouds were already gathering in the sky and droplets were already hitting his coat, soaking his hair, running down the headstone.

John's hand was resting on top of the memorial and He smiled behind the sadness growing inside of his head, "Please don't leave. It's been 2 years, Sherlock. _2 years._" His smile vanished as he gave in to the depression, "I can't get over this. You can't just...leave. You were my only friend. You _saved_ me."

His head dropped back to his side as he faked another smile, "Goodbye, Sherlock." With that, he left the yard.

Little did he know, that Sherlock was there. He'd always been there. He had heard every word and seen every emotion that came from John's fragile mind. He would stay here. Always.


	2. Chapter 2

John decided that he would clean the flat. Sherlock would've despised that. Not knowing where anything was. Mycroft did that sometimes and it made Sherlock absolutely pissed. That way, Sherlock would come back to the flat from _avoiding John, _and put everything back. Maybe a few things would move. John hadn't thought it through but he felt that it was a good start. He left for the store and came back, no bags in his hands, to the untouched flat. He sighed and plopped himself on the chair, closing his eyes. _Sherlock is alive._ He thought to himself, _He's going to come back...He has to._

The next morning, John was determined to find Sherlock. He barreled down the stairs and slammed the front door, not bothering to apologize to Mrs. Hudson who was standing out front. John walked swiftly to the morgue, checking one last time for Sherlock. He was looking for any references to Sherlock, really. Like the last times, John found nothing. He walked down into the homeless network that Sherlock had been quite familiar with. Nothing. He tried the restaurant next door, Lestrade's office, and even Mycroft's office. Nothing. He was starting to give up as he hurried back to the flat, opening his desk drawer and grabbing his gun. John called two people. Anderson, and Donovan. He had no clue why their phone numbers were in _Sherlock's _phone but they came to the flat.

John led them to the couch and made sure that Mrs. Hudson was out, shopping probably.

"Why are we here, John." Anderson said in his usual nasally voice.

"Yeah, John. I have a case I should be working on." Donovan added, checking her watch as if she were trying to be dramatic.

John just sighed, "Tea?" He didn't even wait for their reply. He handed them two cups and sat across from them.

"Is this about Sherlock's death? Because, I swear, if this is-"

"No. it's not." John interjected, sipping his tea, "This is about Sherlock's survival."

Anderson and Donovan looked at him like he was crazy and John smiled, totally calm.

They glanced at each other and started to stand, "Sit. Down." John said sternly. Donovan sat back down and Anderson followed, completely confused by now. John put his tea down and leaned on his knees, "Look. I have a plan to get Sherlock back. But I'll need you two to help me."

"What?" They asked, simultaneously.

"Sherlock's alive and I have to get him back. I found out how."

Anderson looked John up and down, "How is that?"

Sherlock rushed from my temporary hideaway in the hospital's basement to the flat, following the sounds of sirens. He burst through the door and ran upstairs, hoping that John wasn't hurt. He hoped and hoped until he got upstairs.

Sherlock's breathing stayed shallow and quick. His feet stopped and his body froze, not daring to move any closer.

John met Sherlock's gaze and smiled, "I knew it." He lilted, not even bothered by the bodies at his feet.

Sherlock knew by the time He saw his flat-mate, that something was wrong. _Very, very wrong._ John's hand was wrapped around his gun and his finger was still on the trigger. His shoes were caked with blood and Anderson's limp body was slouched on the rug. Donovan's was about 2 feet over and they were swimming in pools of blood. He tried to take a step forward but this wasn't right. This wasn't John. This was someone else inside John's head. His eyes were different, not glinting with amazement. They were shimmering with craze and lunacy, absolutely mental. John's hands were shaking around the gun and the smile never disappeared from his face.

"John," Sherlock started, taking off his coat, "Put the gun down."

John obeyed gladly and sat down on his chair, not even bothered by the bodies next to him. Sherlock poured tea into John's cup and sat across from him, studying his every motion. John's fingers tapped incessantly on his thigh as He sipped the tea.

"Why, John?" Sherlock inquired, even though he already knew the answer.

"Because, _Sherlock_. I knew it would bring you back. I knew you weren't dead." John was grinning from ear-to-ear.

Sherlock nodded slowly, "What did you expect was going to happen after this?" At this, John just shrugged and Sherlock laughed, "You mean you hadn't planned it out? God, John. How _stupid _of you." He sniggered.

John's smile faded and He reached for the gun, pointing it at his friend, "You know, Sherlock, You could be next." He said, tracing the trigger with his index finger, "I could shoot you right now."

Sherlock smiled, "Then do it."

John's thumb cocked the gun and Sherlock extended his arms, exposing his chest. John's index finger tightened on the trigger, then relaxed. The detective smirked and stood up, patting him on the shoulder, "I knew you couldn't do it." He sat back down with another cup of tea, "You're too _in love._"

"Say's who?" John scoffed, getting more tea.

Sherlock laughed, "Says your body language. Says the numerous compliments. Says the obsession about my death." He smiled and sipping his tea, looking John square in the face, "But it's okay. I like you too."

John looked up from his drink and raised an eyebrow, "Not in a million years you wouldn't."

"Try me."

John did. He met Sherlock halfway and their lips met over the coffee table. The sirens had stopped and everything was quiet. John leaned back and Sherlock stayed where we was, not breaking eye contact, "Told you."

John chuckled and looked at Sherlock, "Welcome home."


End file.
